I hate when I can't remember things. Like when I got the strawberry Chapstick, or where the apple-flavored sucker on my bed came from. They trigger a memory and I know I've seen them before, I know they are mine, but I don't know when I have seen them and I don't know why they are mine. The memories are less like memories and more like pieces, flashes of something never quite remembered. The candy is in some way connected to my boyfriend and the Chapstick came from Walmart. Perhaps such meaningless trifles aren't worth the worry. Maybe it shouldn't matter that I don't remember something as useless as where an apple sucker came from. Yet it seems to spread.
It does not spread like an infectious disease, spreading from memory to memory until I have none left. I remember a story of what happened at work, but I don't know what day it happened. It is not that I forgot. There was never anything to be forgotten. It is not that I am losing my memories. I am losing the ability to remember. I cannot forget what I never remembered in the first place.
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